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Finch: Surrounded, Helpless, Bleeding, Alone; Living, Breathing, Motionless Toy
Jonn had said It's not gonna get any darker, as if that meant the night had reached peak danger, and if nothing had gone wrong yet, it wasn't going to. Then he'd grabbed Finch's hand and taken off across the rooftops, and when one of their boots hit a shingle badly, they both hit the street together. Finch immediately wanted to snap at Jonn and blame him to deflect the fact that, he knew, it had probably been him, but the fall knocked the breath out of him and before he was able to complain, Jonn had pulled him back to his feet. They were surrounded. The things weren't moving fast, like they were still processing the two gifts that had fallen from the sky into their laps. Jonn had his knife drawn and had pushed Finch behind him while Finch was still wheezing. “Go go go go go go go,” he was saying lowly, and once Finch could breathe again he realized Jonn was talking to him. The things charged in just as Finch was turning to scale the wall they'd slipped from. He made himself not look back, focus on the handholds, not listen to the sounds behind him or the shaking in his hands until he'd pulled himself over the edge. The sensible thing to do would be to keep going. Put as much distance between him and the horde as possible, get back to the bunker faster. His supplies would last twice as long without Jonn leeching off him. But, fuck, he couldn't. He stayed low on the rooftop and spun to hold a hand down, calling his partner's name. Jonn was in the thick of it; he didn't look up, but a few of the zombies did, and he took advantage of the flicker in attention to down a few more. “Jonn, you dumb fuck, get up here!” Finch yelled. There were too many for him to kill them all, more wandering in from down the street that he couldn't see. The plan had never been to fight them. It was always to avoid them -- take the roofs, be stealthy and quiet, don't call attention to themselves, escape if things looked bad. Back to the bunker. Regroup. Be safe. It wasn't Finch's fault if Jonn couldn't follow the fucking plan. It was a good plan -- it didn’t have any room for error, it accounted for things going awry, it was simple and easy to follow. It wasn’t his fucking fault. Finch slipped away from the edge and pushed himself up, looking around for the next step, the next roof. He blocked out Jonn’s laughter down below until something scrabbled against the roof tiles, and he dodged away, turning and drawing his own knife -- the things couldn’t climb -- he’d never seen them do it before -- Jonn was breathless on his stomach on the roof, manic laughter coming from him that Finch knew the zombies couldn’t or wouldn’t imitate. Safe. But he was still for a moment, knuckles white around his dagger in the moonlight, and when he finally looked up he dragged his other hand across his mouth, smearing black oil across his face, still laughing shakily. Finch kept his distance. Kept his knife out. “Close one,” Jonn said, with his usual bright demeanor brought down by the tremor in his voice. Fuck. Was he actually scared now? Finch hadn’t accounted for that -- he’d never seen Jonn shaken before. He didn’t know how to work with it. But Jonn stood up and the laugh trailed off, and he wiped the black off his knife and sheathed it. He looked tense, still, but his eyes were bright and wide and blank when they turned on Finch. He spat to the side before brushing past him, putting a hand on his shoulder as he did to pull him along -- not dragging him, like usual, just indicating that he should follow. Finch wondered if those things could infect someone without their eyes going black. He’d seen the bugs they forced down people’s throats, the squirmy black liquid things like what was bleeding out of Jonn’s mouth now. But they couldn’t do voices. Their eyes were always black. The hilt of his knife bit into his palm. Jonn looked back at him. “Thanks for waiting on me.” When he spoke, Finch could still make out the quiver in his voice. He nodded. It wouldn’t help to tell him that he hadn’t really waited, that he was going to abandon him just -- as soon as he’d been able to. As soon as he’d figured out what to do next. It wouldn’t help to tell him that he’d locked up when faced with the prospect of having to make it back to the bunker alone. Or to admit that his plans for surviving revolved around Jonn surviving, now, to bring him supplies, to do the things he’d lost the ability to do. He thought about the coal chute, and Larkin’s hand reaching down to him, the claustrophobia and the single heartbeat when their hands had met and he’d thought he was going to make it before being wrenched away. Her desperate face in the darkness had been the last thing he’d seen. He’d blocked out the next part. Surrounded. Helpless. Bleeding. Alone. Finch realized suddenly that he couldn’t breathe. There was a squealing in his ears and nothing else, and his fingers pricked, and his lips were numb. Jonn had turned away, and Finch’s vision closed in on him just as Jonn pointed across the rooftops and looked over his shoulder again. When he came to Jonn was touching his face, and after the disorientation passed it registered that he’d passed out, and his head was cushioned on Jonn’s folded legs. “Hey, what the fuck?” He opened his mouth to reflexively say fuck you but it didn’t come out. “I’m the one that almost fuckin’ died, man.” He managed. “Fuck you.” Jonn grinned and shifted to help him up, grabbing his hand again and keeping hold of it. Finch felt like he was supposed to say something here, to explain himself or maybe thank Jonn for not abandoning him or admit that he wouldn’t have returned the favor -- apparently Jonn wouldn’t even care, or at least that was what he claimed -- but Jonn had already looked away again, indicating their best path back home. He dropped it. They both took a silent moment to steady themselves before moving on. Jonn kept spitting black. When they reached the bunker, there were already zombies clustered on the stairs outside the door, slamming their fists on it, trying to force the knob. Finch felt himself blanch. Jonn studied the situation for a moment before sitting down on the edge of the building above and pulling his crossbow out of his bag, loading bolt after bolt and hitting the things more often than he missed, but still not making enough of a dent before he ran out. Finch paced behind him as he packed his bow back up. Hadn’t planned for this. Hadn’t thought it would happen, even with the things attacking the door the previous night. Hadn’t ever intended on coming back to the bunker this late, when the things had had enough time to surround it. Fucking Larkin. He'd just had to see if she was safe in the Basha's warehouse. “Can you use --?” Jonn started, and he shook his head. “I could get five or six of them, maybe. Tops.” He kept pacing. He hadn’t learned magic to fight; he could barely use it for self-defense. And he would need to concentrate, anyway, and that didn’t seem like it was going to happen. “Okay.” Jonn stood up and drew his knife. “I’ll draw them off. They probably want me, anyway.” “What?” “If you can take out a few of them, and I can get the rest to leave, then you can get inside. And I’ll circle back.” Jonn had said I don’t really care if you do wanna kill me. But he had dragged himself onto that roof to get away from the horde. Finch didn’t understand what the fuck ruled his self-preservation instinct, or if he really even had one. “What if you get penned in again?” “I’ll find something to climb.” He waved it off. “I’ll get away. Or, worst comes to worst --.” He shrugged and mimed drawing his knife across his throat. “What the fuck?” He spat over the edge of the roof. “I know what being one of those things is like. They’re still alive. They’re in there. Maybe not these ones -- it can use dead bodies. But the ones that aren’t dead, I mean.” He paused, and shivered. “I’d rather be one of the dead ones.” Finch stared at him. He needed Jonn to survive. If he didn’t -- the plans could be recalibrated, and he’d have time, because he’d use fewer supplies. He’d ration himself more stringently. He could make it -- what -- a week and a half, ten days or so. Maybe stretch it to fifteen. Then he’d have to leave the bunker again, and he’d have to do it himself because Jonn wouldn’t be there to do it for him. He’d -- maybe he could get in touch with the guild, get a new partner -- if another partner would put up with being his errand boy, put up with his reluctance to leave his bunker, if -- Jonn looked back for a moment, then skipped across the corner of the alley and darted along the side of it, whistling down at the zombies. They tracked him -- most of them -- more of them when he dropped down to street level and stopped to wave his arms and walk backwards for a beat. “Hey!” he called. “Come get me, you deal-breaking bitch! I said I wanted to fucking kill you, right? Give me a chance!” The clot of zombies lurched towards him and he turned tail and ran. There were a couple of stragglers left lingering by the door. Only a couple. Finch snapped his fingers a couple times, lighting up sparks, then managed the full spell -- launching blue lightning down at one, then the other, reducing them to sizzling dead meat. Jonn was distant now, but Finch could still squint through the night and see him. And he could see the second group of things in an adjacent alley, about to cut him off. Again, Finch opened his mouth to say something, to yell himself hoarse, but there was no way he’d be able to communicate anything detailed enough to Jonn over this distance. There was nothing he could do. And if -- Jonn was overcome, the things would come back, right? Fuck. Fuck. He had to get inside. Now. He dropped down from the rooftop hard enough to jar his knees and back, and quickly unlocked his locks, keys rattling in his hand. He shoved in and slammed the door behind him, fumbling with the locks this time, relying on his weight to hold the door closed at first, then froze once it was all done. Safe. The door was secure. Nothing had been in here. It was all quiet. All quiet and safe. Alone. Finch breathed. One slow, long, shaky breath. His hands were still flat against the door, like he was keeping it closed by sheer strength, and he repeated to himself: Safe. Alone is safe. Quiet is safe. This is good. This is fine. Fifteen days. I am safe. This is good. Something slammed against the door and he flinched, an unintended low sound coming from his throat. It was fine. He’d been right, then -- he’d known they’d come back. They’d be banging on the door all night. No sleep. But they’d leave in the morning and he’d get some sleep then, and be up all night again, making plans, drawing maps, alone, safe, waiting to hear from the guild, safe, waiting for it to stop, alone, surrounded, helpless, bleeding -- “Finch! Fuck you, let me in!” Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck -- he scrambled to undo the locks. Jonn had made it back. He was alive, he was speaking in his own voice, sounding desperate. Finch knocked the last bar across the door and yanked it open, backing away, keeping a hand on the knob to close it again as soon as Jonn was in. His hair was disheveled and one of the things had scraped fingernails across his face, leaving a bloody mark from across his forehead, and right eye and cheek. He made it one step before one of them collided with him, pinning him against the stairwell wall, his knife hitting the floor with a clatter. Electricity crackled between Finch’s fingers, but he couldn’t hit the thing without hitting Jonn. He had another spell, one that would only affect what he touched, but that would mean getting closer, stepping outside the bunker, leaving safety, losing the backup plan of just shutting the fucking door and locking all of the locks back and waiting. He hesitated. Jonn screamed and shoved at it and for a second his gaze flickered over to Finch, eyes wide, teeth grit, and Finch wondered, absently, if he realized that he didn’t actually not care if Finch wanted to kill him. He tried to drop down to grab his knife and the thing kept scratching at his face, even when he drove the blade into its guts once, then a second time. Later Finch would remember that it was a magic knife, and he must have been opening his mouth to say the command word. Or maybe to yell at Finch, or taunt the zombie. It was impossible to say. The thing forced its fingers between his teeth, and he gagged, but it kept his mouth open as it vomited up one of the oil-slick black bugs. Finch started to step forward, finally, but he didn’t do it in time. Jonn kept driving his knife into the zombie as long as he could, and it died on top of him, but it was already done -- the bug had already slipped down his throat. He writhed in place, managing to shove the zombie off of him, coughing and dry heaving and spitting. And then he stopped, and only lay there, shuddering. Finch moved. He flung out a spectral hand, grabbing the coil of rope under his desk and dragging it to him, kneeling down and wrenching Jonn’s arms behind his back before he started moving again, tying them there as tightly as he thought was safe. (None of this was safe. This was stupid. Fuck. He should leave Jonn out here, he should -- he should have helped. Jonn had looked at him, for a heartbeat, for a second he’d thought he would make it because his partner would help him. Fuck.) He dragged Jonn inside, kicking his knife out of his still-clenched hand, shutting the door and relocking everything, pressing an alarm spell into it and turning back. Jonn was still, at first, but twitched when Finch touched him to take his bag away, his head twisting around to fix black eyes on Finch. Reflexively, Finch jerked away, even though he’d known what to expect. Seeing it was different. Seeing it up close was different; seeing it in someone he knew was different. The thing inhabiting Jonn squirmed, testing the ropes, but couldn’t get free. It just stared at him. Or he thought it did. It was hard to be sure. He went closer again, slowly, snatching at the loose rope and tugging Jonn’s body into a more upright sitting position. It folded his legs the same way he always did, tilted his head the way he did, but something in the movement was wrong. He carefully positioned it in a corner near the door, so he could watch them both at the same time, and it didn’t try to stop him from tying Jonn’s ankles together. Then he backed away, swiping Jonn’s knife off the floor and settling back across the small, small room onto the foot of his bed. He didn’t have a plan for this. He grabbed his crossbow and pointed it in the general direction of both threats -- the door and the one he’d let in. He didn’t know what he was going to do, here. Didn’t know what his options were. The thing didn’t talk, just kept looking at him, oozing black from the mouth and red from the scratched face. The way it looked at him -- it still made him think of Jonn, somehow. Jonn had said I’d rather be one of the dead ones. Finch didn’t take his eyes off of it. Category:Vignettes